


Invitation

by Spiritmoon23



Category: Who Killed Markiplier? (Web Series)
Genre: A Date With Markiplier, Darkiplier Mark Fischbach, Other, Post-Who Killed Markiplier?, Self-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2020-09-16
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:22:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26489374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spiritmoon23/pseuds/Spiritmoon23
Summary: I've been knocking on doors expecting all walks of life to answer and invite me in to give them their five minutes of fame- even though my fanbase is so small- but I didn't expect the house to invite me to stay.
Relationships: Celine | The Seer & Y/N | The District Attorney (Who Killed Markiplier?), Damien | The Mayor/Y/N | The District Attorney (Who Killed Markiplier?), Darkiplier/Reader
Kudos: 22





	Invitation

**Author's Note:**

> Told in first person view, this is a work involving an original character encountering Dark after the events of Who Killed Markiplier, and tells their origin story together. It includes elements commonly seen in self-insert fanfiction. If you do not like this writing style, this work is not for you. If you leave rude comments they will be deleted, and you will be blocked.

Asking around the creepiest characters that populate big cities is the single best way to get an idea of where the most supernatural places are. This is how I've found some of my favorite hidden gems in places I'm foreign to- this time was no different. Through a long line of telephone, I found my way to the house staff of a manor on the north side of a wealthy suburb. I had spoken to who I assume was the grounds keeper (the overalls and mud-caked boots really gave it away) and he, like many before him, warned me against going into the house. "It's dangerous!" he'd told me with a voice roughened by age, "People who go in there come out different. If at all." I thanked him for his warning, because I had no doubt it was true, and I left to knock on the front door.

Lovely enough, as I went to knock the door, before my hand so much as touched the dark hardwood, the small camera in my hand turned off with a pop and a small puff of smoke. I grimaced- this isn't great for me. Cameras aren't cheap. However, this _does_ mean that this house is going to be a good one. I grabbed out my phone to take pictures of what had happened to document it, and added a short video, narrating, "Before even going inside, whatever is here fried my camera, so this house is going to be shot on my phone-" I break my monologue to chuckle, "It'll really look amateur this time, won't it?" I am nervous about this house, since whatever is here must be powerful and _definitely_ does not want me here, but I'm in good spirits (pun intended).

The person who answers the door absolutely towers over me, but he feels small. Someone with the personality and disposition to be subservient would naturally gravitate towards a profession of service, I suppose. This isn't the first time someone I've visited has had house staff, but I could count these encounters on one hand. "The master of the house does not buy from solicitors, so ple-"

"I'm actually here as an investigative journalist, I study supernatural locations. I've heard this house has an interesting energy to it, may I speak with your employer?" The man blocking the doorway looked blankly at me like he was processing the information at the speed of internet explorer. He opened his mouth to speak again but was interrupted by someone behind him.

"Oh, let them in. It is rather rude to keep a guest waiting on the front stoop." The butler steps aside with a bow to reveal a smaller but more imposing man behind him stepping off the last steps of the spiral staircase centered in the foyer. "I don't receive many visitors anymore. It is... refreshing, to meet someone brave enough to step through these doors again. I heard you telling my butler that you're here to investigate the house. I'm sure you've heard all the rumors." The man walks while he talks, inviting me to follow and look around the house. My phone camera is on in my pocket to catch anything I might miss on this initial walk through.

The master of the house is suave, well dressed, and well spoken, like a man who has been in the spotlight long enough to bullshit through any event without a hitch. I don't immediately recognize him, so he likely isn't a celebrity. He holds himself almost like a politician; like someone who expects to command the room. Or maybe he's just a narcissist. Nevertheless, he doesn't seem to notice that I'm hardly listening. That is, until he stops in the kitchen and I almost walked right past him. "I'm afraid you won't find whatever it is you're looking for here," he says in a sultry voice, "But it would be a shame for you to come all this way and come away with nothing. Why don't you stay for dinner, at the least?"

I shake my head and fidget with my hands. "I don't usually interact with the people who live in the houses I expl- um, investigate. My area of expertise is more in the ones who are already dead, if you will."

He flashes a smile that, momentarily, paralyzes me, although I'm not sure why until much later. "I feel that you'll be in most welcome company even so. Please, I insist." A short back and forth follows, until I eventually concede; it'll be nice to eat something that isn't fast food for the first time in a while. And after our conversation, I find myself sat in (what I assume is) his study on the west side of the building. The room is more spacious than any of the rooms in my own apartment back home, and light filters in from beautiful bay windows. The whole thing feels expensive, and I can't help but put conscious thought into everything I touch, wondering how many rent payments each one is worth. If the man notices, he doesn't seem to comment about it. 

The thing I notice most about the man is that, while he seems hospitable enough, he doesn't ever smile, and his demeanor is always as distant as he can manage. He also feels... Different, in a sense. I know in the pit of my stomach something isn't right with him, but I can't put my finger on it no matter how many times I try to sneak an evaluative glance. He calls himself Damien, but the staff never address him by name and any documents I've caught laying out only mention someone named "Mark". At some point while I was looking at papers on the desk he poured us both a brandy with a couple ice cubes each, and I sip mine occasionally so as not to appear rude, but he hasn't touched his once. Maybe it's for show.

Long before I finish my glass, the house butler paid us a visit; dinner, it seems, is ready. 

At the table he sits in such a way that I know he's expecting something. Would it be rude to ask what? I decide that it is. But, the food is impeccable and he makes small talk the whole time, but I don't see him eat anything. "Are't you going to eat? It feels kind of weird being the only one," I laugh nervously, only half light-hearted.

"I'm not one for usually dining with others. I suppose you could say that I'm not used to it." He shifts, and I assume he's recrossing his ankles under the table. I'm watching him the entire way through dinner, watching how he moves and how he speaks, and I realize that there were two distinct things that alerted me to his other-worldliness: his voice doesn't match his lips, and I haven't seen him unconsciously breathe since I've arrived

\-----

Several hours and several conversations later I'm none the wiser to what exactly this house is presenting me with, but I know I'm going to do whatever I can to get what I came for, even if it means getting thrown out in the process. Besides, when has the law been important to me?

Sitting, again, in his study, a lull in the conversation invites me to fill it with the next stage of my investigation. "So," I begin as nonchalantly as I can, "You're certain that you haven't experienced anything in this house? Nothing interesting?"

"No, I haven't." He gives a mostly hollow smile. 

I make pointed eye contact with him over the rim of my glasses. "We both know that that isn't true, Mister Damien. You've been lying to me all night." He opens his mouth, likely in his defense, but I can't give him the chance to speak yet. I still have more I need to say. "I have a master's degree in psychology, I can see the unconscious behaviors people have, even if I mostly look like I live in my parent's house. Now," I move forward in my chair so I'm gently perched on the edge, "How long have you been possessing this body?"

He looks like he's going to come up with something, like he's going to deny there's anything wrong and call the police to have me escorted to a hospital. After a few seconds of silence, and me offering nothing else, he leans back and crosses his legs, folding his hands over his knees. "You're not the only person who has come here to find me, but you're the first to be this bold. Tell me, what was it? How did you see through me?" 

I don't know if he wants an answer, really, but I'm not going to give him one either way. "I know a demon when I see one. Where does this leave us, then? Are you going to kick me out now? Absorb my soul, or something?"

He laughs in a way that chills my bones, and it seems to come from all around me. "I'll humor you for a time, since you seem to have done your research. I'm not interested in being viewed as a side attraction, but I admire your drive to get what you want. I'll even invite you to stay in the manor while you're _investigating_. What do you say?"


End file.
